The incident recorded in the preceding chapter occurred in June, 1827, and in the autumn of the same year two companies of our command were ordered to Prairie du Chien to strengthen the garrison there, in anticipation of trouble with the Indians. One of these was Company "C", commanded by our father; the other company was in command of Captain Scott.
We had become so attached to a home so filled with peculiar and very tender associations that our hearts were sad indeed when we bade "good bye" to all, and from the deck of the steamer took our last look at the beloved fort where we had lived so many years. In later years when passing the spot where we bade farewell to the flag which floated over headquarters on that bright morning long ago, I involuntarily look up at the beautiful banner still waving there, and a tender, reverential awe steals over me, as when standing by the grave of a friend long buried.
We had hardly been a year at Fort Crawford when my father was detailed on recruiting service, and ordered to Nashville, Tennessee. This was in 1828, memorable as the year of the presidential campaign which resulted in the election to that high office of General Andrew Jackson. When our friend Mr. Parton was writing his "Lifeof Jackson," I gave him, at his request, my impressions as a child, of the great man, with whom we were daily and intimately associated, and now transfer those impressions from that great work, "Parton's Life of Jackson," to the pages of this unpretentious record of past times.
At the time referred to, our family boarded at the "Nashville Inn," kept by a Mr. Edmonson, the home of all the military officers whom duty or pleasure called to Nashville. It had also been for a long time the stopping place of General Jackson and his wife, whenever they left their beloved "Hermitage" for a temporary sojourn in the city. Eating at the same table with persons who attracted so much attention, and meeting them familiarly in the public and private sitting rooms of the hotel, I of course felt well acquainted with them, and my recollections of them are very vivid even now. The General's appearance has been so often and correctly described that it would seem almost unnecessary to touch upon it here; but it will do no harm to give my impressions of him.
Picture to yourself a military-looking man, above the ordinary height, dressed plainly, but with great neatness; dignified and grave—I had almost said stern, but always courteous and affable; with keen, searching eyes, iron-gray hair standing stiffly up from an expansive forehead; a face somewhat furrowed by care and time, and expressive of deep thought and active intellect, and you have before you the General Jackson who has lived in my memoryfrom my childhood. Side by side with him stands a coarse-looking, stout little old woman, whom you might easily mistake for his washerwoman, were it not for the marked attention he pays her, and the love and admiration she manifests for him. Her eyes are bright, and express great kindness of heart; her face is rather broad, her features plain, her complexion so dark as almost to suggest a mingling of races in that climate where such things sometimes occur. But withal, her face is so good natured and motherly, that you immediately feel at ease with her, however shy you may be of the stately person by her side. Her figure is rather full, but loosely and carelessly dressed, with no regard to the fashions of the day, so that, when she is seated, she seems to settle into herself, in a manner that is neither graceful nor elegant. I have seen such forms since, and have thought I should like to experiment upon them with French corsets, to see what they would look like if they were gathered into some permanent shape. This is Mrs. Jackson. I have heard my mother say, she could imagine that in her early youth, at the time the General yielded to her fascinations, she may have been a bright, sparkling brunette, perhaps may have even passed for a beauty; but being without any culture, and out of the way of refining influences, she was at the time we knew her, such as I have described. Their affection for each other was of the tenderest kind. The General always treated her as if she was his pride and glory, and words can faintlydescribe her devotion to him. The "Nashville Inn" was at this time filled with celebrities, nearly all warm supporters of the General. The Stokes family, of North Carolina, were there, particular friends of his; the Blackburns, and many other old families, whose names have escaped my memory. I well recollect to what disadvantage Mrs. Jackson appeared, with her dowdyfied figure, her inelegant conversation, and her total want of refinement, in the midst of this bevy of highly-cultivated, aristocratic women; and I recall very distinctly how the ladies of the Jackson party hovered near her at all times, apparently to save her from saying or doing anything which might do discredit to their idol. With all her disadvantages in externals, I know she was really beloved. She was a truly good woman, the very soul of benevolence and kindness, and one almost overlooked her deficiencies in the knowledge of her intrinsic worth and her real goodness of heart. With a different husband, and under different circumstances, she might have appeared to greater advantage, but there could not be a more striking contrast than was manifest in this dignified, grand-looking man and this plain, common-looking little woman. And the strangest of it all was, the General did not seem at all aware of it. She was his ideal of every thing that was good, and loving, and true, and, utterly unconscious of any external deficiencies, he yielded her the entire homage of his own brave, loyal heart. My father visited them more than once at the Hermitage. Itwas customary for the officers of the army to do this, as a mark of respect to the General, and they frequently remained at their hospitable mansion several days at a time. The latch-string was always out, and all who visited them were made welcome, and felt themselves at home.
An anecdote which my father told us, characteristic of Mrs. Jackson, impressed my young mind very forcibly. After the evening meal at the Hermitage, as he and some other officers were seated with the worthy couple by their ample fireplace, Mrs. Jackson, as was her favorite custom, lighted her pipe, and having taken a whiff or two, handed it to my father, saying, "Honey, won't you take a smoke?"
The enthusiasm of the people of Nashville for their favorite has been descanted upon, years ago. I remember well the extravagant demonstrations of it, especially after the result of the election was known. I walked the streets with my father the night of the illuminations and saw but two houses not lighted up, and these were both mobbed. One was the mansion of Judge McNairy, who was once a friend of Jackson, but for some reason became opposed to him, and at that time was one of the very few Whigs in Nashville. On that triumphant night the band played the hymn familiar to all, beginning: "Blow ye the trumpet blow," and ending: "The year of Jubilee is come, return ye ransomed people home." This certainly looked like deifying the man they delighted to honor, and I remember it seemed very wicked to me. When the old man finallystarted for Washington, a crowd of ladies were assembled on the piazza of the hotel, overlooking the Cumberland river to "see the conquering hero go." I mingled with them and distinctly remember hearing one lady say she had had a good-bye kiss from the General, and she should not wash it off for a month. Oh! what a noise there was! A parrot, which had been brought up a democrat, was "hurrahing for Jackson," and the clapping of hands, the shouting, and waving of handkerchiefs have seldom been equalled. When the steamboat passed out of sight, and all realized that he was really gone, the city seemed to subside and settle down, as if the object of its being was accomplished.
But the sad part of my remembrances, is the death of Mrs. Jackson. Early one bright pleasant morning my father was putting on his uniform to go with the other officers then in the city, to the Hermitage to escort the President-elect to Nashville. Before he had completed his toilet a black man left at the door a hand-bill announcing Mrs. Jackson's death, and requesting the officers to come to the Hermitage at a time specified, with the usual badges of mourning, to attend her funeral. She had died very suddenly at night, without any apparent disease, it being very generally supposed that her death was occasioned by excess of joy at her husband's election. When it was discovered that she was dead, the grief-strickenhusband could not be prevailed upon to part with her body, but held it tightly in his arms until almost forced from his embrace.
This news caused great commotion. Many ladies went out from the city to superintend the funeral arrangements, and displayed more zeal than judgment by arraying the body in white satin, with kid gloves and slippers. Pearl ear-rings and necklace were likewise placed upon it; but, at the suggestion of some whose good sense had not entirely forsaken them, I believe, these ornaments were removed. The day of the funeral, proving damp and drizzly, the walk from the house to the grave was thickly laid with cotton for the procession to pass over.
Notwithstanding the grief displayed by the friends of this really good and noble woman, on account of her sudden death, it was supposed by many, that after all, they felt it a relief; for it had been a matter of great anxiety how she would appear as mistress of the White House, especially as some of her warm, but injudicious friends, had selected and prepared an outfit for the occasion, more suitable for a young and blooming bride than for a homely, withered looking old woman.
During the war of the rebellion, as the Fifth Division of the Army of the Cumberland was marching from Gallatin to camp near Nashville, the General in command arranged that myself and daughter, who were visiting the army and keeping with them from day to day, should callat the Hermitage, as the troops passed near. An escort was furnished us, and we turned off in our ambulance at the nearest point. We soon reached the great gate, and, passing up the avenue of dark, sombre evergreens, to the broad piazza of the historic old mansion, were received by the hostess, the wife of General Jackson's adopted son. Our reception, while not uncivil, was certainly frigid, and we had expected nothing more cordial from those who called us their enemies. After a short, constrained conversation, we were shown the General's room, and some portraits of distinguished people on the walls, and were then conducted to the tomb at the foot of the garden, where husband and wife lie side by side under a canopy supported by marble pillars and shaded by magnolia trees, whose rich, glossy leaves and royal white blossoms made the sacred spot a lovely resting place for the old man and his beloved Rachel. On the tablet, which covers her remains, we read the following inscription, prepared by her husband:
"Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President Jackson, who died the twenty-second of December, 1828, aged sixty-one. Her face was fair; her person, pleasing; her temper, amiable; her heart, kind; she delighted in relieving the wants of her fellow creatures, and cultivated that divine pleasure by the most liberal and unpretending methods. To the poor, she was a benefactor; to the rich, an example; to the wretched, a comforter, to the prosperous, an ornament; her piety went hand in hand withher benevolence; and she thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good. A being so gentle and so virtuous, slander might wound but could not dishonor. Even death, when he tore her from the arms of her husband, could but transport her to the bosom of her God."
At his own special request, the tablet which marks the spot where he rests, has only this simple record:
"General Andrew Jackson.Born on the 15th of March, 1767;Died on the 8th of June, 1845."
Among the notable persons whom we frequently met during the year of our sojourn in Nashville, was Samuel Houston, since so thoroughly identified with the early history of Texas. He was at that time moving in gay society, was called an elegant gentleman, was very fine looking and very vain of his personal appearance; but domestic troubles completely changed his whole life, and leaving his wife and family, he abjured the world and went into exile, as he termed it. While we were in Smithland, Kentucky, to which place our father had been ordered from Nashville, he stopped with us on his way to the wilderness, and excited our childish admiration by his fanciful hunter's garb and the romance which surrounded him. I remember, too, that he begged a fine greyhound and a pointer from my brother, who gave them up, but not without a great struggle with himself, for he loved them,—little thinking then, dear boy, that this man, fantastically cladin buckskin, would one day, as President of Texas, repay him amply by delivering him from a great peril.
I record here a reminiscence of Smithland which stamps that little town, and its surroundings, indelibly upon my memory. One day, as my brother and I were at play in front of the recruiting office, which was situated on the one long street, near the river bank, a steamboat, with its flag flying, came down the Ohio and rounded to at the wharf. As it made the turn, we noticed that the deck was crowded with negroes, and we heard them singing some of their camp meeting hymns in a way to touch all hearts. The strain was in a minor key, and, as the poor creatures swayed their bodies back and forth and clapped their hands at intervals, we were strangely moved; and when, the landing being effected, and the gang-plank arranged, they came off,chained in pairs, and were marched, still singing, to a shed prepared for them, we could not keep back the tears. The overseer, a great strong man, cracking his "blacksnake" from time to time, to enforce authority, excited our strong indignation. All this is an impossibility now, thank God, but then it was a cruel, dreadful reality. Like cattle, they were penned for the night, and were to be kept there for a day or two, till another boat should take them to New Orleans to be sold for the cane brake and the cotton field. They had been bought by the dealer in men and women, who had them in charge, at the slave pen in Washington, the capital of theUnited States. For aught I know, Uncle Tom may have been among them, destined for the genial, easy-going St. Clare and finally to pass into the hands of Legree, the brute, who was to whip him to death. The next morning a bright mulatto woman surprised us, as we were at breakfast, by coming into our room and begging my father to purchase her. I never knew how she managed to do this, I only know she stood before our free, happy household pleading most earnestly, said she was not a field hand, was a good house servant in her master's family where she was born and raised, and had been sold, "because massa died, and de family was too poor to keep me; I'se a fustrate cook, and 'd sarve you faithful; and, oh, mistis," turning to my mother, "I'se lef' little chillun in de ole Virginny home, and if you buys me, may be I might see 'um again sometime." But it could not be, and the poor sorrowing mother went back to the gang, whose breaking hearts were pining for home and dear ones they could never again behold. And one morning they were driven onto another boat, and passing slowly out of sight, sang, as they sailed down the river to their doom, "swing low, sweet chariot," etc.
From this Kentucky town, his two years of service as recruiting officer having ended, our father was ordered to Fort Howard, Green Bay; but, being desirous that his children should have the advantage of the schools in Cincinnati, which at that time were considered exceptionally excellent, he established us in that city in a pretty home of our own, and for the first time the family was separated, he going alone to his post, while mother and children remained in Ohio. In 1829 Cincinnati was very different from the great city which now spreads out over the beautiful hills, and extends miles on "La Belle Riviere." It was a pretty, flourishing, clean town, and for us it was a delightful home, the dense smoke from the innumerable industries, now hanging like a pall over the valley, was not known then, and the atmosphere was clear and bright. Nicholas Longworth was the great man then; his strawberries and his beautiful gardens were famous, and his sudden rise from comparative poverty to enormous wealth, mostly by successful ventures in real estate, was marvelous, such instances being rare in those days. He was an eccentric, but very kind-hearted man, very good to the poor, and he had many warm friends. A fewyears later he turned his attention to the culture of grapes, and made Cincinnati famous for its catawba and other wines bearing the Longworth brand.
There were many others whose names could be given and of whom even then the young city was justly proud. Dr. Drake, the eminent surgeon and beloved physician; Rev. Dr. Joshua L. Wilson, the Boanerges of Presbyterianism; Dr. Samuel Johnson and Dr. Aydelotte, the hard-working and vigilant watchmen on the Episcopal watch towers; Judge Bellamy Storer, the distinguished jurist; Edward Mansfield, the great journalist; Salmon P. Chase, then the energetic and promising young lawyer, years afterward Chief Justice of the United States, and many others whose lives are written in the "History of Cincinnati." From the long list I select a few names of those with whom our family was intimately associated: Major David Gwynne, a former Paymaster in the army, and my father's life-long friend; Judge Burnett, our near and highly-esteemed neighbor; Dr. John Locke, my honored teacher for four years; Alexander Kinmont, the eccentric Scotchman and most thorough educator of boys; the Groesbecks, the Lytles, the Carneals, the Kilgours, the Piatts, the Wiggins,—all of whom bore a prominent part in the early formative days of the beautiful city.
Edward Mansfield, who did so much to shape the literary taste of Cincinnati and to promote its interests in many ways, deserves more than a mere mention of hisname. He was the son of Jared Mansfield, Professor at West Point Military Academy and Surveyor General of the Northwest Territory. He graduated at West Point in 1819, and was appointed Lieutenant of Engineers, but, at the earnest solicitation of his mother, resigned and turned his attention to legal pursuits. He practiced law for a while in Cincinnati in partnership with Mr. Mitchell, who afterwards became so famous as professor of astronomy. But finally Mr. Mansfield devoted himself to literary and scientific investigations, and published several books and essays of great value. In 1845 he wrote "The Legal Rights of Women," and year after year some biography or history from his fertile pen came to light, and was welcomed and appreciated by the reading public. In 1836 he became editor of the "Cincinnati Chronicle," afterwards of the "Chronicle and Atlas," and in 1857 of the "Gazette." "As an editor and contributor he was remarkable for his impartiality and fairness, and was one of the most extensive newspaper writers in the country. He supported the Whig party with great ability, and no one in his day did more for the triumph of the Republican party. His memoirs, published by himself in his seventy-eighth year, extending over the years from 1803 to 1843, are of great public interest."
The Asiatic cholera visited the United States for the first time in 1832, and its ravages in Cincinnati were terrible. Business was in a great measure suspended, schoolswere closed for a time, and the air was full of "farewells to the dying and mournings for the dead," but after a time the dreadful scourge passed away, leaving an indelible impression on all, and the old order of things was resumed. In 1833 we left our pleasant home in Cincinnati and went to Fort Winnebago, on the Fox River, Wisconsin. This was just at the close of the Black Hawk war, during which my father commanded at Fort Howard, Green Bay, and had some pretty sharp experiences. On our way to our new station we stopped at Fort Crawford, Prairie du Chien, several days to rest and prepare for our journey of nearly a week overland to Fort Winnebago, and were entertained at the hospitable quarters of Colonel Zachary Taylor, then in command of the post. Our host and hostess were so cordial and made us so comfortable and at home, Miss Knox Taylor was so lovely, and little Dick and Betty such delightful playmates, that we enjoyed our visit there most fully, and have always remembered it with great pleasure. And when we learned only a short time after our arrival at our journey's end that Lieutenant Jefferson Davis had carried off our beautiful Miss Knox, in spite of her parents' watchfulness and her father's absolute commands, our grief and indignation knew no bounds. The pair went to St. Louis and were married. The Colonel and his wife never recovered from the shock, which seemed to blight the happiness of their home. They never saw their child again. There was noreconciliation between the parties, and the beloved, misguided daughter died in six months after leaving home. He who treacherously beguiled her away from her happy home is an old man now, and must soon go to his account. He stands out prominently against a dark background, and no one will envy him the recollection of that deed or the place he occupies in the history of the country to which he proved false in her hour of trial.
It is said that the broken-hearted father never spoke to him for years, but that on the battle-field in Mexico, Captain Davis made a successful movement, and in passing him, General Taylor, as commanding officer of the division to which he was attached, said, "that was well done, Captain," and perhaps he never spoke to him afterwards.
When our delightful sojourn with the kind friends at Fort Crawford came to an end, we started in our open vehicle, which had been made as comfortable as possible for our long ride of several days to our final destination, and, as there were no public houses on the road, our dependence for accommodations, was upon the thinly scattered settlers, who for the most part were "roughing it," and had few conveniences, scarcely any comforts to offer the weary traveler.
One night the halt was called in front of a low log house of two rooms, connected by an enclosed passage way, which served the purpose of an eating room.
The mistress of the house was the wife of a steamboat captain, but owing to some irreconcilable difference of sentiment, she refused to live with him, and she was miserably poor. In pity to her sad case, her husband had sent, by my father, some articles of clothing which he hoped might be of use to her, and this errand served as our introduction. She was a tall, fine looking woman, and received and welcomed us with the air of a princess dwelling in a palace. She was a niece of James Fennimore Cooper, and her grand and stately mien, in the midst of such squalid poverty, would have been amusing, but for the pity of it.
Her father, a very old man, lay dying of consumption in one of the rooms, and my little sister and I were assigned for the night to a bed directly opposite the death couch. The one tallow candle on the stand beside him, guttering down in its socket, the fitful light from the vast fireplace, which made strange fantastic shapes and shadows on the rough dark walls, and the clear cut profile of the dying man, with the erect dignified figure beside him, rising occasionally to arrange his pillow, or give him water, impressed us most painfully, effectually driving sleep from our eyes, which, under a kind of fascination, gazed intently on what they would fain not see. From time to time the dogs outside howled dismally, and this forced night-watch was made most hideous by the occasional hooting of an owl, or the prolonged baying ofhungry wolves in the distance. We were very weary, and at last fell into a troubled slumber, but were haunted even in sleep by the ghastly face across the room and the weird shadows on the wall, 'till aroused by mother's morning kiss, and cheery call to breakfast, which banished all disturbing dreams, and waked us to the realities of a bright sunshiny morning, and the morning meal which our grand hostess had prepared for us to eat before we left this most uninviting caravansary. This repast consisted of potatoes boiled "au natural," and some kind of drink which she announced as coffee, and which she served with the grace of a queen, dispensing the delicacies of her table.
I have never ceased to admire the admirable tact and grace with which my father added to this choice menu; some very nice boiled beef and other toothsome viands, with which our bountiful friends the Taylors, had packed our messchest; also, some choice tea, which father, accustomed to camping, knew how to prepare in perfection. All this he did in such a way as to make the lady feel that it was an honor to us to share these things with her, and it was really gratifying to see her calm enjoyment of delicacies to which she had long been a stranger. I think, too, that the fragrant cup of tea and the delicate bit of toast, taken to the sick man, may have brought to his mind tender recollections of a time when he lived like a gentleman, and dispelled for a little while the memory of the family troubles, and the complication of misfortuneswhich had reduced him to poverty and a dying bed in this comfortless log cabin in the wilderness.
Kind friends met us with a hearty welcome at our journey's end, where for a few years we had a very happy home. The memory of the weekly musicals at John Kinzie's pleasant agency, and the delightful rides on horseback over the Portage to the point where Portage City now stands, quickens my heart-beats even now.
But where now are all those who then called that little quadrangle "home?" Col. Cutler, Major Green, Captain Low, Lieutenants Johnston, Hooe, Collingsworth, Lacy, McLure, Ruggles, Reid, Whipple, Doctors Satterlee, McDougal and Foote, Sutlers Goodell, Satterlee, Clark, Lieutenant Van Cleve and my own dear father? Alas! of all these but one answers to roll-call, and he and I hold in sweet remembrance the dear friends of our youth, and the beloved old fort, where He who hath led us graciously all our days, first brought us together, and blessed us with each other's love, and we thank Him from our hearts that He has spared us to each other for so many years.
There came a day in April, 1834, when my brother and I bade "good-bye" to all, and, under our father's care, left Fort Winnebago to go East, he to West Point, I to school in New Haven.
We descended the sinuous Fox river in an open boat, having on board, besides ourselves, a crew of soldiers, and two ladies, who embraced this opportunity to visit their Eastern home.
The spring rains set in the next day, and our voyage down the Fox river lasted ten days, during which time we had ample opportunity to test the efficacy of hydropathy, as our awning was by no means waterproof, and we were literally soaked the greater part of the time. In passing through Lake Winnebago the wind was so fearful that the combined efforts of Captain and crew were necessary to prevent shipwreck and disaster. The passage through the rapids below was extremely hazardous, but a famous Indian pilot was employed to guide us over, and no harm befel us. The picture of that tall, dark figure at the bow, his long, black hair streaming in the wind, his arms bare, his motions, as he shifted his pole from side to side, rapid and full of unconscious grace, his eyes glowing like starswith anxious vigilance, his voice ringing out clear and musical from time to time, is as fresh in my mind as if all this was only yesterday.
But civilization and never-tiring enterprise have waved over it their magic wand, and the whole scene is changed. Beautiful towns have sprung up about the clear, blue lake, and the place that knew the Indian and his people shall know him no more forever. In a distant camping-place nearer the setting sun the remnant of a once powerful tribe is dragging out its existence, waiting and expecting to be moved still farther west when the white man wants the land they occupy,reservedto them only till that want becomes imperative and the United States says: "Go farther!"
When we finally reached Fort Howard, and were cordially welcomed and hospitably entertained by General Brooke, of the Fifth Regiment, we forgot, in our exceeding comfort, all the perils and disagreeables by the way, and not one of us experienced the slightest cold or inconvenience from our long exposure to the elements.
We remained a week here awaiting a schooner, and I met for the first time Captain and Mrs. Marcy, parents of Mrs. General McLellan. How pretty and charming she was, and how kind and tender to the boy and girl who were going away from home and mother for the first time! The beautiful wife of General Brooke, too, was so loving and considerate in her motherly attentions to us that shecompletely won our hearts, and when she died, some years afterward, we felt bereaved.
The voyage by schooner to Buffalo through the Straits of Mich-e-li-mac-i-nac and tempestuous little Lake St. Clair, a day or two at hoary, magnificent Niagara, the journey thence by stage, canal, railroad and steamboat to New York, filled up one month from the time we took our farewell look at the star spangled banner floating over our far Western home. And this sixteen mile ride by rail from Schenectady to Albany, which was over the first piece of road opened for travel in the United States, seemed so like magic as to inspire us with a kind of awe. I remember that in coming to a steep grade the passengers alighted, while the train was drawn up the slope by some kind of stationary machinery.
I recalled this experience of my girlhood a few years ago when, in a luxurious palace car, a party of us wound up and over the Veta pass, an ascent of 2,439 feet in fourteen miles, and looking down the dizzy height, as the two powerful engines, puffing and snorting like living creatures, labored to reach the summit, I marvelled at the splendid triumph of genius and skill.
After a pleasant day or two at West Point, where we left the young Cadet, and a short visit to relatives in New York, a most enjoyable trip in a "Sound" steamer brought us to the "City of Elms," one of the great educational centers of New England, which was to be my home for two years.
There were many learned men in New Haven then, and the faculty of the time-honored old college had on its roll names which will never die, Day, Silliman, Olmstead, and many others,—who were mighty in eloquence and theology, like Leonard Bacon and Dr. Taylor, proclaimed the truth with no uncertain sound in the churches on the "Green" from Sabbath to Sabbath. Grand old Noah Webster, standing in the doorway of his modest home on our road from school to church, was, to me, an embodiment of the spelling-book and dictionary, and I instinctively made obeisance to him as we passed that way.
One of the few privileges granted me in the way of recreation while at "Mrs. Apthorpe's School for Young Ladies" was an occasional visit to our dear cousins, the Brewsters, who occupied a beautiful home on the Sound, formerly known as the "Pavillion," which might be called historic, for in a dark dungeon underneath the house the notorious regicides, Goff and Whalley, were hidden in the old, old times. And the graveyard in New Haven, with its tall poplar trees, was an epitome of the lives of men and women who had made their impress, not only on that community, but on the world. Our school was situated on Hillhouse avenue, and our walks were mostly confined to that quiet, shady street and "Powder House lane," in order that we might avoid meeting the "students," of whom our teacher seemed to have a great dread, a fear from which her pupils were entirely free. But for all thiscare and precaution we learned to knowby sightBenjamin Silliman, who lived next door to us, and young Thomas Skinner, who was opposite, and it is delightful to know that these two young men, who were full to the brim with fun and harmless mischief, have become eminent and dignified men of renown, one as a chemist and scientist, the other as a distinguished divine and honored professor in a theological seminary.
The college commencement exercises were held in the Central Church, on the "Green," and all the schools, male and female, were well represented in the large audience. The ladies occupied the center of the church, and, in order that the large bonnets in vogue at that time might not intercept the view of the stage, several long lines were stretched longitudinally over their heads, to which they were expected to attach them, and, after all had hung up their bonnets, these lines were drawn up out of the way until needed again. Many of the ladies provided pretty caps and headdresses for the occasion, and the delicate laces, with their tasteful trimmings, and the bright eyes and happy faces, formed a pretty picture long to be remembered. Recalling it, I see again the dimpled cheeks and soft, graceful appointments of those merry girls, and, wafted backward over the bridge of many years, I sit among them, the spring-time of youth comes back to me, and I bless God for memory. What if we are old women now, worn and weary with care and trial it may be; thisblessed gift refreshes us on our way to the eternal youth that awaits us just beyond, and we exult in the belief that the flowers over there are fadeless, that old age is not known, and friends no more say "good-bye."
The fall of 1835 found us all, except our Cadet, at Fort Winnebago again, but heavy afflictions made that winter a very sad one. The anxiety consequent on the serious illness of two beloved members of the family so wore upon our dear father, whose constitution had been severely tried by arduous military duties, that after many weeks of pain, he died, and left us crushed and desolate.
I have beside me an old "Order Book," open at a page on which is this sad record:
"The Major Commanding has the painful duty to announce to the command, the death of Major Nathan Clark; he will be buried to-morrow afternoon at 2 o'clock, with the honors of war, where all present, except those persons who may be expressly excused, will appear under arms in full uniform; the Commanding Officer directs that the escort be composed of four companies, which, in accordance with his own feelings as well as what is due to the deceased, he will command in person. All officers of this command will wear black crape attached to the hilts of their swords, and as testimony of respect for thedeceased, this badge will be worn for the period of thirty days. The Surgeon of the Post will act as Chaplain.
"The Major Commanding has the painful duty to announce to the command, the death of Major Nathan Clark; he will be buried to-morrow afternoon at 2 o'clock, with the honors of war, where all present, except those persons who may be expressly excused, will appear under arms in full uniform; the Commanding Officer directs that the escort be composed of four companies, which, in accordance with his own feelings as well as what is due to the deceased, he will command in person. All officers of this command will wear black crape attached to the hilts of their swords, and as testimony of respect for thedeceased, this badge will be worn for the period of thirty days. The Surgeon of the Post will act as Chaplain.
By order of Major Green.Feb. 18th, 1836.
SignedJ. T. Collingsworth, Act. Adj."
And at the time appointed, a detail of soldiers from his own "Company C," reverently place upon the bier the encoffined form of their beloved commander, having for a pall the "Stars and Stripes", on which are laid the sword and accoutrements now no longer needed.
Memory brings back to me that mournful afternoon, and I see the bearers with their burden; the long procession of soldiers with trailed arms; the commissioned officers each in his appropriate place, all keeping time and step to the muffled drum as it rolls out its requiem on the wintry air, in the strains of Pleyel's heart-melting hymn; the weeping wife and children in the large sleigh,—all passing out the great gate to the lone graveyard. And the precious burden is lowered, and at its head stands Surgeon Lyman Foote, our father's life-long friend, and in a voice trembling with emotion, reads the wonderful words: "I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord." After the burial service comes the last salute, and, leaving there that which is so dear to us, we go back to the empty quarters, bowed down heavily, as those who mourn for one inexpressibly dear.
During those weeks of pain and languishing, my father,knowing what the end must be, and realizing the change his death would make in all our plans, left full directions for our future course; and in accordance with his last wishes, my marriage with Lieutenant H. P. Van Cleve was solemnized, in the presence of a few friends, March 22d, 1836. Rev. Henry Gregory, of the Episcopal Church, at that time laboring as a missionary among the Stockbridge Indians, performed the ceremony. His station was between the Forts Winnebago and Howard, and he had a serious time making the journey on horseback to the fort, the snow being very deep and the weather severe. Besides using up his horse he became snow-blind, and reached us pretty well worn out, but we can never forget his cheerful endurance of his trials, and his genial, affable manner, which made warm friends of all who came in contact with him. He was one wholivedthe gospel which he preached, and unconsciously diffused a beneficial influence all about him. Notwithstanding his temporary blindness, he was so perfectly familiar with the marriage service that there was no delay in consequence, and after resting with us a few days, till his eyesight was restored, he left us on a new horse to return to his home among the Indians, where he labored faithfully and effectively for some years longer.
As soon as navigation opened, my mother went to Connecticut with two children, leaving the youngest, a dear little three year old girl, in our care. We spent the first summer of our married life very quietly and happily atthe old fort, and enjoyed exceedingly a visit from two companies of the First Regiment, from Prairie du Chien, who had been ordered up there, to strengthen our post, on account of a rumor of an Indian outbreak which had reached Washington. Col. Zachary Taylor commanded the detachment personally, and encamping just outside the fort, made a beautiful display. Old General Brady was with them also, and we were proud and happy to entertain our dear father's old friends at our own table. To add to the pleasure of this visit, there was not and had not been the slightest foundation for alarm. It was said that not only were the Indians perfectly peaceable, but that they had not enough ammunition to kill what game they needed for food. Colonel Taylor knew all this, but was obliged to obey orders; so we had a grand picnic of a few weeks, just when the prairies were covered with delicious strawberries, and the cows were yielding abundance of milk and cream. That was in the old time, when mails were monthly, and telegraphing was a thing of the future.
In the following September, my husband having resigned his commission, we bade a long "good bye" to the army and its many tender associations. This step was taken after much thought and deliberation, and in accordance with the advice of our dear father. But the army had always been my home; I loved it as such. I love it still, and it is a comfort to me in my old age to know that I am not far away from a fort, that I canalmostsee thebeautiful flag, as it sways in the breeze, canalmosthear the drum and fife, the music of my childhood, and canfeelthat they are near me, in dear old Fort Snelling, my earliest home.
In 1840, being in Cincinnati, where we were delightfully situated, we had a rare opportunity to witness the enthusiasm of our countrymen, as displayed in the Presidential campaign of which General Harrison was the successful man. The excitement of that time was tremendous. The hard cider songs—
"And should we be any ways thirsty,I'll tell you what we will all do,We'll bring forth a keg of hard ciderAnd drink to old Tippecanoe."Also: "For Tippecanoe and Tyler, too,And with them we'll beat little Van.Van, Van's a used-up man,And with them we'll beat little Van."
"And should we be any ways thirsty,I'll tell you what we will all do,We'll bring forth a keg of hard ciderAnd drink to old Tippecanoe."
Also: "For Tippecanoe and Tyler, too,And with them we'll beat little Van.Van, Van's a used-up man,And with them we'll beat little Van."
Resounded through the streets from morn till midnight, drums beat and cannons roared, and, seeing the way in which the poor old man was dragged about from place to place in all kinds of processions, we were not surprised when we learned of his death a few weeks after his inauguration. Then, alas! what a sad procession passed through those same streets, of late so full of life and joy; now heavily draped in mourning and echoing to funereal strains, as the worn-out old man is borne slowly through the beautiful city to rest in his quiet home at North Bend.How empty seem all earthly honors in view of such sharp contrasts. The lesson sank deep, and can never be forgotten. Looking over the leaves of my diary kept during that eventful year, I find recorded there a sorrowful incident that occurred during the winter, bringing desolation to a rich man's home and grief to many loving friends. I give it here in the form of a story, as I have told it to my children from time to time. It is an entirely correct narrative, without the slightest coloring, and I have called it "A Tale of the Florida War."
"You had better go, dear Lizzie, it will do you good; the confinement in this lonesome fort does not agree with you. A ride on horseback and a pleasant visit with dear friends will brighten you up and bring back some of the roses to your cheeks. My duty keeps me here, but Sherwood will go with you; the Colonel will provide a suitable escort, and there is nothing to fear. You will return in better spirits and be happy again, will you not, my drooping lily? What! tears again? Dry them, dearest, and let us hope that you will soon receive that long-expected letter from your mother, for she must feel that by this time, if any punishment was necessary, yours has been sufficient. Now smile again, dear one, as you were wont to do in happier days, or I shall tell you that my heart reproaches me for having taken you from your luxurious home and brought upon you so much unhappiness." "Say anything but that, my beloved, and I will try to conquer mysadness. You know I would not exchange these simple quarters of a poor Lieutenant for all the splendors of my father's house. For your sake, and with you beside me to cheer and comfort me, I could bear all hardship and privation; but, oh! to hear from my parents that I am forgiven, that they still remember me with my sisters, as one of their dear children. I will be patient, dear, and trust more fully in Him who has said: 'When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord will take thee up.' He will surely hear my daily prayer and restore peace to my heart, and we will dwell on the sweet promises we read together in the Book we have learned to love so well, and will trust Him who is our best, our unfailing friend. And now, since you, my dear, kind husband, wish it, I will prepare for this little excursion. I cannot bear to leave you here, but I shall be back soon, and who knows but to-morrow's mail may bring some news from home which will cheer and comfort us both. Yet I cannot account for a feeling that takes possession of me now and then, that something is about to happen; that all will not be well while we are absent the one from the other. What can it be? I cannot shake it off. The fort may be attacked, and should anything befall you, my best beloved, what would become of me? Much better remain and perish with you than return to a desolate home."
"Now, my darling, do not give way to such dismal forebodings. You always cheered me during those days ofdoubt and suspense in Newport, bidding me look forward to brighter days. You would not now sadden the hours of your absence from me by causing anxious thoughts in my heart. Oh! my precious wife; you have borne much for my sake, you have been to me in very truth a ministering angel. Do not now despond, but still strengthen me by your brave, hopeful smiles. You know how I shall miss you every moment of your absence, but the hope that this ride will do you good makes me willing and anxious to have you go. And see, the Orderly has just brought your horse, and Sherwood is crossing the parade to tell you he is ready. Let me put your shawl around you and tie your hat, that you may be all in waiting for him." The young wife turned upon him her large, beautiful eyes, beaming with love, and, twining her arms about his neck, kissed the "good-bye" she could not speak. Then, looking earnestly to heaven, she silently called down the protection of heaven on him whom she loved only next to God, in whom she trusted. Her husband tenderly embraced her, led her into the parlor, and, handing her to the young officer who was to take charge of her, said: "Be careful of her, Sherwood, and let me see you both by noon to-morrow. My compliments to the ladies of Fort Holmes, and urge Mrs. Montgomery's special friend to return with her and partake of the hospitalities of Fort Adams." Sherwood bowed in acquiescence, and, assisting the lady into her saddle, acknowledged gracefully thehonor conferred upon him and mounted his horse, which was impatient to begone. Then the last "good-byes" were spoken, loving looks exchanged, and in a few moments the young Lieutenant and his precious charge had passed through the gate and were out of sight. The young husband gazed after them a long while, with anxious, troubled look. "Dear girl," he said, at last, "she, too, feels forebodings of coming ill, and I dare not tell her, but for days I have felt much depressed. This is wrong, however. I must struggle against it and try to be cheerful when she returns. Why should I feel thus? We were never more secure than at present, and soon this vile war will be over, and surely by the time we return to our homes the parents of my precious wife will have become reconciled to us, and we shall be very happy." Turning from the door and entering the room where he had parted with his wife, he threw himself on the lounge, overcome by various emotions, and, in fact, far from well in body, though this had been carefully concealed from his anxious wife.
While he is thus resting and trying to put away unpleasant thoughts, and our fair heroine is pursuing her way to Fort Holmes, we will tell the reader of some of the peculiar circumstances of Lieutenant Montgomery and his gentle bride, at the time our story begins. Lizzie Taylor was a fair girl of little more than seventeen summers when she first met Lieutenant Montgomery at a partygiven by some of theeliteof Cincinnati. They were mutually attracted to each other, and being thrown frequently into each other's society, this feeling gradually ripened into love. Honorable and high-minded in all things, young Montgomery did not conceal his fondness for Lizzie, and it was generally known that he was her lover. But her father, a man of great wealth and ambition, did not approve of what he chose to call her childish fancy, and, being desirous that his daughters should form brilliant marriages, frowned scornfully on the suit of one who hadonlyhis irreproachable character and his commission in the army of the United States to offer as his credentials. Opposition in this case, however, had its usual effect, and Lizzie, in all things else obedient and complying, felt that here, even her father should not interfere, when his objections were simply want of wealth and influence on the part of him to whom she had given her young heart. The young people, were not hasty, however, but waited patiently and uncomplainingly a year, the father promising them that he would think of it and give them an answer at that time. The proud man flattered himself, that during that probationary year he could divert his daughter from her foolishness, as he termed it, and excite her ambition to form a wealthy alliance.
To this end, he travelled with her, introduced her into gay and fashionable circles, and lavished upon her indulgences in every shape. But he realized little of thedepths of a woman's love, and was much astonished when, at the end of the year, she sought an interview with him, in which she told him, her feelings were unchanged, and she desired his consent and blessing on her union with Lieutenant Montgomery, adding that she hoped that time had softened his feelings towards one with whom he could find no fault save that he loved his daughter, and who was prepared to be to him a dutiful, loving son.
Her father turned upon her in anger, and stamping violently, swore by all that was sacred that never would he give his consent to her union with one so much beneath her in wealth and position. "Then, father," said his gentle daughter, mildly but with much dignity; "we will marry without it, for as sure as God has witnessed our vows, so surely shall nought but death part him and me; 'his people shall be my people, and his God, my God.' Forgive me this first act of disobedience to your commands, and believe me that I still love you as tenderly as I have always loved my father; but there are feelings which not even a parent's authority can control, and with the blessing of God and the love of him most dear to me of all on earth, I can brave even more than a father's displeasure." So saying, she left the room, while her father, astonished beyond measure, remained motionless, completely taken by surprise at this determined opposition to his will in one who had hitherto been all gentleness and submission. Days passed, and she continued asever, gentle and loving to her father. No reference by either was made to their late conversation, and he began to think she had thought better of it and had concluded to yield to his wishes, even congratulated himself that thechildish affairhad been nipped in the bud by his timely and judicious authority, when on one bright summer day, like a thunder-clap from an unclouded sky, came a very polite note from Lieutenant Montgomery apprising him of the fact that Lizzie and he had just been married in the presence of a few friends by an Episcopal clergyman, and that they craved his forgiveness and blessing. From that moment her father's heart, already hard, was set as a flint against her. No entreaties could prevail on him to see her, and her mother, nearly crazy with grief, anger and wounded pride, took counsel of friends, who most unwisely encouraged her bitterness and convinced her that no concessions should be made to a disobedient child under any circumstances, making the poor, distressed, mistaken mother feel that it was a Christian duty to let her feel that her act had made her an outcast from her parents' love and home. Therefore, although she saw the poor girl occasionally, she always heaped on her devoted head the most withering reproaches, telling her she had disgraced her father's name, and must expect to reap the fruits of her disobedience. And when the sad little bride sent to her, begging for some of her clothes, of which she was sadly in need, for she had carried nothing with her whenshe left her old home, she tore from its frame a beautiful portrait of dear Lizzie, and, rolling it up in some of the very plainest of her clothing, sent it, with the message that they had no further need of it, and that the articles sent were good enough for one in her position.
During that summer Lieutenant Montgomery was stationed at Newport, Ky., on the recruiting service, where my husband, my mother and I occasionally visited them, and we were astonished to notice with what perfect kindness, even affection, they always spoke of her parents and friends; but when we found her once reading God's Word and staying herself on His precious promises, we no longer wondered that there was in her heart no feeling of bitterness, for she, too, had learned the lessons He taught, who, "when He was reviled, reviled not again, but committed himself to Him who judgeth righteously." A very few of her friends still visited her, but nearly all felt it would not be politic to be found in sympathy with one on whom the wealthy and influential Griffin Taylor frowned with displeasure. She always believed her father would relent, and sometimes, when she saw him approaching her on the street, her heart would give a great bound with the hope that now he would surely speak to her; but as soon as the proud man saw her, he invariably crossed the street to avoid the meeting, and then she felt sore and wounded, indeed. So the summer passed away, and in the fall came orders for the Lieutenant to join his regiment, thenengaged in the terrible war with the Seminoles in Florida. All wondered if Lizzie's love for her husband would stand this severe test, and many were astonished when they heard it was her intention to accompany him to the land of the Everglades, where so many had lost their lives, and where the prevailing fever or the deadly tomahawk might leave her alone among strangers. A few days before they left we visited them in the old Newport barracks, and I said to her: "Lizzie; remember you are a soldier's wife, and must not give way to fear." Never can I forget the look of tenderness with which her husband regarded her as he replied for her: "Dear Lizzie has no fear; she is more of a soldier than I am. Had it not been for her brave bearing and her sweet words of encouragement, I know not but I might have turned coward at the thought of exposing the dear girl to the dangers and privations of such a campaign; but the knowledge that I possess such a treasure will nerve my arm and give me courage to fight manfully to preserve her from danger, and to end this dreadful war with the relentless savages." After repeated but vain efforts to see her father, she bade farewell to her friends, and those to whom she had clung during her days of trial and suspense accompanied her to the steamer which was to carry her from her home. The day was a cheerless one; the sun veiled his face behind dark, ominous clouds, and the wind sighed mournfully, as if moaning out a requiem. We felt oppressed with foreboding;we knew she was going into the midst of real danger; her father had refused to see her; her mother had parted with her in anger; nearly all her old friends had frowned upon her, and now nature seemed to give signs of displeasure, though we who loved her felt that the heavens were weeping in full sympathy with the dear girl. The young husband and wife strove to be cheerful, she smiled sweetly through her tears, as she spoke of returning in the spring, expressing the hope that by that time her parents would have forgiven them and would welcome them into the beloved family circle.
We stand on the wharf as the boat pushes off, waving our last "good-byes" and breathing prayers for their safety and welfare, while she leans on the arm of him for whom she has forsaken all but God; the great wheels revolve, the boat moves on her way, and that girlish form, on whom our eyes are fixed, grows fainter and fainter, till it fades out of sight. We heard from them immediately on their arrival at Fort Adams, and the Lieutenant wrote that Lizzie was well and would be perfectly happy but for the thought of her parents' displeasure. Her young sister, Carrie, a sweet girl of thirteen, had shed many tears for her, and had used all her eloquence to bring about a reconciliation, apparently in vain, but finally she had so far prevailed with her mother as to extort a promise from her that she would write to her, which fact she straightway communicated to Lizzie, who was, at the opening of our story, lookinganxiously for this promised letter, which might contain words of love, perhaps forgiveness. But she had looked so long and had been so often disappointed, that suspense, that worst of all trials to a wounded spirit, had affected her health and made her pale and sad. It was on this account her husband had prevailed on her to accept an invitation from an old friend of hers and make a little excursion to Fort Holmes.
The real object of the trip was the bearing of important messages to Fort Holmes, and a full escort had been detailed as a matter of prudence, although the Indians had been very quiet for some time and no danger was apprehended. Lieutenant Sherwood, as commander of the expedition, deemed it an honor to take especial charge of the young wife, who by her gentle loveliness had endeared herself to all. But after they were out of sight Montgomery became very restless, and, remaining only a short time on the sofa where we left him, when we commenced this long digression, he arose and paced the floor in deep and anxious thought, and at length, as if to throw off the terrible weight that oppressed him, went to the door where he had parted from his darling, and oh! horror! there stands her horse, panting and riderless, quivering in every limb with fright. Without an instant's delay he sprang on to the animal and rode, he scarcely knew where, not knowing nor daring to surmise what terrible thing had befallen his precious wife. What words can depict the scene thatbroke upon his bewildered gaze when the horse instinctively stopped about three miles from the fort? There on the ground lay several soldiers, murdered, scalped and stripped of their clothing. A little farther on lay poor Sherwood, butchered by the brutal savages, and near him the lifeless body of her whom he had died to protect. Close by her side lay a soldier mortally wounded, who had just strength enough left to say: "I fought—for her—till the last,—Lieutenant,—and have saved her—from the horrid scalping-knife." Poor, distracted Montgomery threw himself on the ground beside her, calling despairingly upon her, imploring her to speak one more word to him, but all in vain; and when the troops from the fort, who had taken the alarm, arrived at the dreadful spot, he lay like one dead, with his arm around the lifeless form of his precious Lizzie. And thus they carried them home in the conveyance sent for the purpose—the poor husband to awake to a bitter sense of his terrible bereavement, and she who had so lately been a lovely bride, to be dressed for her burial. Imagine, if you can, the feelings of her parents when the heartrending news reached them. Her father's pride was crushed, her mother's heart was broken, and those who knew her well say, although she lived many years, that she never smiled again. Her father wrote immediately to Lieutenant Montgomery, imploring him to come to him and be to him as an own son, feeling this to be the only reparation he could make to him and his poor,murdered child. This offer was, of course, rejected, for how could the heartbroken husband consent to live in the home from which his dear wife had been turned in anger away.
Her parents felt that they deserved this, but wrote again begging the body of their daughter, that it might repose among her own kindred and not among a savage people. To this he consented, although he could not be prevailed on to come himself to Cincinnati, and accordingly, early in the spring, the remains of the once lovely and idolized Lizzie Taylor were brought to her father's house.
Her false-hearted summer friends could now weep for her as the daughter of the rich Griffin Taylor, while they would scarcely have regretted her as simply the wife of a poor soldier. Alas! for the hollow friendship of the world! Had one-half the sympathy been bestowed upon the poor child when she was turned from her father's door, an outcast, as was lavished on her poor, unconscious body when lying in that father's house a corpse, how much she would have been cheered and comforted under her sore trial. Everything possible was done to make it a splendid funeral—a rosewood coffin and velvet pall, crape streamers and funereal plumes, an elegant hearse, and an almost unending line of carriages—pitiable, senseless pride, that would cast away as worthless the priceless jewel, and bestow tender care and pompous honor on the perishable casket that once held it!
Nearly fifty years have passed into history since thatmild spring day, when the long procession passed through the streets of Cincinnati, telling in its mournful march of wounded pride, blighted hopes, broken hearts, and agony unspeakable. And yet so indelibly is it fixed in my memory that it seems but yesterday, and I find it hard to realize that the young, gallant officer for whom our hearts were sore that day, is now an old man, with white hair, still in the service of the country he has faithfully served through all these years, holding high rank, and honored, respected and beloved by all who know him. The father, mother, sister, and very many of the nearest relatives and friends of the dear girl have passed away. Soon all who personally knew of this story will be gone. A simple but appropriate monument to the memory of the gallant Sherwood and the brave, true soldier, who gave up his life to protect the precious body from mutilation, was erected where they fell, and may still be standing there, but that is all that remains to tell of this heartrending incident of the bloody war with the Seminoles in the Everglades of Florida.
From our pleasant home and work in Cincinnati we were called away by the illness and death of Lieutenant C. C. Daveiss, a brother-in-law and army associate of my husband, to whom he left the care of his family and the settlement of his business. He had resigned his commission in the army a few years before, and had settled on a large plantation which he owned near La Grange, Missouri, and Daveiss Prairie, as it was called, was our home for two years, during which time we had some new experiences, and a fine opportunity to study a class of people entirely different from any former associations. They were mostly from what might be called the backwoods of Kentucky; were ignorant, and had some very crude notions of the world at large. Nearly all of them owned a few slaves, raised a great many hogs, cultivated large fields of corn, and were content with a diet of corn bread and bacon, varied, during their long summers, with vegetables, melons and honey, all of which were very abundant. They had some cows and sheep, and some fine horses, which enjoyed unlimited pasturage on the succulent grasses of the prairies. They made their own clothing from the wool, spun and woven at home, and were ina measure independent of the world. They were religiously inclined, and had preaching every Sabbath, at some accessible point, the Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian, and Campbellite preachers alternating, the first named denomination being the most numerous. Among them was a stalwart,powerfulpreacher, who was also the owner of a fine farm and a pretty strong force of negroes. He was held in high esteem for his great natural gifts, and we can never forget the meed of praise accorded him by his gentle, adoring wife, when, in speaking of this mighty man, she said, with exultation: "Mr. L. is so gifted that he never has to study his sermons. They come naturally to him. He hardly ever looks at a book from Sunday till Saturday, not even the Bible!" and we believed her.
The houses were built mostly of logs, and the architecture was of the most primitive style. The living room was furnished with one or more beds, a table, and strong home-made hickory chairs with painfully straight backs; and it was customary in occupying one of them to lean it back against the wall or bed, at a convenient angle, putting the feet on the rounds; and this fashion made it the proper thing to salute a visitor thus: "How-d'y? Walk right in; take a cheer, and lean back." One of our neighbors, in giving her ideas of a newcomer, said: "She's smart enough 's fur as I know, but I don't reckon she knows much about manners, for when Isotdown on a cheer she never asked me to lean back."
Soon after we were settled at Daveiss Prairie, a neighbor, hearing we had taught school elsewhere, called to see me, and opened up the subject of education with, "I'd kind o' like to have our Reubenlarn figgers; he takes to larnin the prettiest you ever see. But, law sakes, he ain't nothin to our Pop. Why, Pop can read ritin"! I learned subsequently that "our Pop", a pretty girl of eighteen or twenty, was the wonder of the country on account of this rare accomplishment, and seeing her frequently on horseback, with her "ridin-skeert" tucked about her, as if for a journey, I inquired one day if she had any special calling, and learned that she rode from farm to farm, as her services were needed, to read the letters received by the different families; "and", my informant added, "she makes a heap of money, too; I tell you Pop's smart."
Another ambitious mother called to learn if I would teach her "Samthe tables, so'st he can measure up potatoes and garden truck handy," adding, "it ain't no use for girls to bother much with figgers, but I see Miss Daveiss draw in a piece" (into the loom) "without countin' every thread, so you may just let Kitty larn enough to do that-a way." Spending an afternoon with this mother, a good, sensible woman and very kind neighbor, I found her preparing the wedding trousseau of one of her girls, who was to be married the next week. She was a good girl, a general favorite, and all were much interested in the coming event. In the course of my visit one of the daughters calledout, "Lucy, where's the fine needle? you had it last;" and the reply came, promptly, "I reckon it's in that crack over yon, whar I stuck it when I done clar'd off the bed last night;" and there it was, sure enough, and by the aid of that little solitary implement some delicate ruffling was hemmed, and the bride looked very pretty and bright a few days later, when she stood beside her chosen husband in her humble home and promised to be to him a good, true wife; and when, after a bountiful wedding feast, the happy pair mounted their horses, and, amidst the good wishes and congratulations of friends, rode away to the new log house in the wilderness, where they were to make a home. I could not but admire these simple souls, who knew nothing of the strife and turmoil and excitement of the outer world, and required so little to make them happy.
Besides this class of people of whom I have been telling, there were several families in our neighborhood who were well educated and refined, and we formed lasting friendships among them. It may be that, if Missouri had been a free State, we might have made our home there, but slavery, even as exhibited here in its mildest form, was an insuperable objection, and when my husband, having faithfully discharged his trust, felt that his sister's affairs were in such a state that she no longer required his aid, we bade farewell to our beloved relatives, to our dear friend Richard Garnett and others, and returned to Michigan, which had been our first home after leaving the army.Here we remained for many years, much of the time in Ann Arbor, where we were engaged in teaching, and where we formed many warm friendships, and became much attached to the beautiful city, which has taken so high a rank as an educational center. Our school was large, and comprised a male and female department, in the former of which a number of young men were prepared for the university. Among them was James Watson, who became so famous as an astronomer, and who from the first astonished all by his wonderful facility in all branches of mathematics. We meet now and then some of our old pupils, middle-aged men and women, and are proud to see them filling their places in the world as good wives and mothers or useful, earnest men. We watched the growth of the University of Michigan from its infancy, and rejoiced when Chancellor Tappan took it in hand and gave it an impetus which changed its status from an academy to a vigorous go-ahead college, with wonderful possibilities. He was a grand man. It was a pleasure and an honor to know him, and Michigan owes much to his wise and skillful management, which brought her university up to the high position it occupies to-day.
We loved Michigan, and would fain have lived there always, but several of our family became much enfeebled by the malarial influences so prevalent at that time in the beautiful peninsula, and we felt that a complete change of climate was imperatively necessary. So, bidding a reluctantgood-bye to home and friends, we turned our faces towards Minnesota, in the hope that that far-famed atmosphere would drive away all tendency to intermittent fevers and invigorate our shattered constitutions.